Fiona’s eyes flickered to them, and she grinned. “But in reality, they’re scared of a woman not just knowing what they want but being brazen enough to demand it.” She shrugged. “Well, that and they’re just really fucking lazy. They want to come with the least possible effort, and if you do too, that’s nothing but an unrequired bonus, not the goal. You are better off without that prick. You need a guy who will make you come so hard, you can’t walk for an hour afterward.”

She spun to face the counter. “Now, what can I get you blokes?”

It was only after I’d packaged up the men’s orders that I realized Fiona had deftly distracted me from my pulmonary embolism that had never really existed in the first place.

Chapter Two

Recipe: Almond Croissants

From ‘Dessert Person’

*see note in the ‘recipe’ section for additions*

Fiona had well and truly put my mind at peace over my decision to break my engagement two months before the wedding.

Not that I was truly doubting it anyway.

I knew I’d made the right decision.

Even though I had broken out in hives for weeks because of the stress over what I was doing, what people would think, who I was letting down et cetera, et cetera. I was a people pleaser with an anxiety disorder who hated conflict. And canceling a wedding that was just months away, being organized by my would-be mother-in-law—who happened to run the town, or thought she did, at least—was pretty much the most conflict-heavy moment of my life. And would’ve made the most well-adjusted person experience anxiety.

Hence the hives.

And the insomnia.

Panic attacks.

But I did it.

Something, despite my misgivings in my weaker moments, I was very proud of.

Almost all of the deposits put down were refundable, and I paid for what wasn’t. All of my friends understood. The woman who would thankfully never be my mother-in-law seemed to have finally given up on leaving nasty messages on my answering machine.

Unfortunately, the man who I was supposed to be marrying—today, in fact—had not gotten the memo.

Nathan had left his fair share of nasty messages too, but now he’d transitioned into ‘trying to win me back,’ a ritual I was not unfamiliar with. When I had first told him that I wasn’t happy or satisfied in the bedroom, we’d had a terrible fight where he said some truly nasty, ugly things to me.

Though I could almost be considered a doormat—it was clear that’s how he thought of me—even I had a line, so I’d broken up with him then and there. That was the first breakup. It had lasted a week. A week of him groveling, buying presents, declaring his love for me, making promises.

Then we had make-up sex, sex that I actually enjoyed. That communicated he’d heard what I’d said and was going to change.

Except he didn’t.

He snapped right back into old routines less than a week after that.